She extends the coloured image. It’s one to one like her other family tree, without the cut-up photos and the names. The same carefully coloured tree, with the same branches, and the same number of green leaves.
Holly seems excited by the prospect of her work hanging up, and I... can’t let her down. I swallow thickly. “There’s a frame in the wardrobe just perfect for this.”
She helps me find the frame, and then watches with a satisfied smile when I hammer up a picture hook and slip the picture onto the wall.
From behind his laptop, Trent keeps looking over, and I wonder what he’s thinking. I wonder if this family tree has him recalling our picnic.I had one once.
With shaky hands, I straighten the frame and use my hoodie sleeve to polish a smudge on the glass. Holly comes so close her face is reflected in it.
“You handed your homework in already?” I ask, pulling on a smile.
“I’m not finished yet.” Holly sighs. “I have to write a page on each person. Something interesting about them. My teacher says it’s to open up conversations at home.” She shrugs, and stares into the middle distance. “But I don’t know what to write about Beth. I have to make it up.”
She doesn’t want to ask her mum about her dead sister.
My swallow is very raw, and I can feel Trent tense behind the desk too.
My fingers curl. The lump thickens in my throat. “I—I can make up some stories for you?”
Holly is already grabbing her pen, like talking aboutfamilyis finally easy at last. She’s found me. She doesn’t have to ask her mum.
She slings herself on my chair butted close up to Trent’s, and I feel more than see Trent listening as I speak. He’s tense; he’s reminded of his real Ika. He’s curious; he’s reminded of me.I had one once.What did he mean? Does it hurt him talking about family trees? What is he thinking as he tells stories for Holly? Is that bright smile all an act?
That’s what his silence asks.
“Stories, stories, stories.” I hum, and snap my fingers. “Beth. Twelve-year-old Beth loved horses and horseriding and took really good care of her horse until the day she fell off its ironing board back and broke her arm.”
Holly giggles. “It wasn’t a real horse?”
“Nope. She wasn’t allowed in real life.”
“Why not?”
“Her mum was afraid she’d break her arm.”
Holly laughs louder. “That happened anyway. Another story!”
I tap my mouth, pondering. “Fourteen-year-old Beth would do anything to protect the ‘perfect’ chicken sandwich. She’d order it just exactly right and never share it. Not even if you offered her chocolate in return for a bite. And if the cat came and pinched a bit when she wasn’t looking... beware kitty. You’re in for ten minutes time out.”
Holly scribbles down the story. “We don’t have a cat, but I think we can use this story. Time out how?”
“Put in the shower box until someone saved it.”
“Beth is minxy!”
“Beth would also give the cat extra treats when no one was looking.”
“Another two,” Holly says. “I have to fill up this page.”
“Beth once decided she was a professional hairdresser. Her first client disagreed. Loudly. With many tears. The moment he saw himself in the mirror, he demanded all his hair back. So Beth, feeling very guilty, marched to a real hairdresser and had hers chopped off too. ‘To be fair’, she said.”
“This Beth sounds like she would’ve been an awesome big sister.”
I drum my fingers against the desk, grinning. “Okay, one more. Let’s call this the Ultimate Beth Classic.”
Holly leans forward, pen hovering over her paper.
I lower my voice to a top-secret whisper. “Once upon a time, Beth tried to turn a penguin into a prince.”
